And Back Again
by EmergentWriter
Summary: INSURGENT IS OUT! And therefore, I had to write a story on it. Insurgent spoilers, so I won't put anything in the summary. Guess you'll have to read and find out. Clue; FEAR LANDSCAPE
1. Chapter 1

**JUST READ INSURGENT OMFG. SO GOOD. So I felt I had to write something for it right away, being the crazy fool that I am XD Spoiler alert for Insurgent!**

**Disclaimer; I DON'T OWN ANY OF THE DIVERGENT TRILOGY NOW THAT THERE'S TWO!**

I take deep breaths. In, out. Inhale, exhale. I feel the sweet oxygen rushing into my lungs as they expand, and feel it come whooshing out again, recycled into carbon dioxide. Steady breaths. In, out.

It has taken me days since our return to the Dauntless compound for me to work up the nerve to do this. I heard Tris mutter something about masochism once, and she's probably right. Except I do this to train, not for some perverse pleasure of self-abuse. I would never be hit by Marcus willingly; that is going too far.

The dank concrete walls surround me, threatening to crush me in already, and the old yellowing lights flicker on and off, like dying lightning bugs. Graffiti covers the walls in vibrant colours, some new, some old and faded, like in my room. Fear God alone. That is my goal, the reason I keep coming back here.

Ever since meeting Tris, ever since _loving _Tris, I have begun to wonder if I am the same person, the one who only fears for himself, or for losing the life of an innocent, nameless woman. Tris is more than a faceless, unidentifiable woman to me.

Am I still Four? Am I still the nearly fearless Dauntless warrior everyone has made me out to be? Wars have a way of changing you, and your perspective, and it is usually not for the better. That much, at least, I have learned in my short life.

If I can't beat my fears, then I am not worthy to be Dauntless. Some sane part of my ever-diminishing brain murmurs that everyone has their fears, and that I am the best of them. I brush the thought away quickly, guiltily.

Marcus, my ever-loving father, drilled it quite heavily into me that I would never be good enough, brave enough, smart enough. I was good enough to be ranked first in my class. I was brave enough to leave Abnegation and join Dauntless. I was smart enough to leave when I could.

The only standards I have to answer to are my own, and Tris's. But if I am not good enough for myself now, I am most certainly not good enough for her, in my mind. So I am going back into my fear landscape.

Before I can lose my adrenaline-fueled nerve, I plunge the thin needle into my neck, emptying the amber liquid into my veins.

A thought flits across my mind; if Tris were here, she would ask to come with me. No, she would _demand _to come with me. A small smile graces my lips as I think of Tris, sleeping peacefully for once with no nightmares of the war. But I left Tris in my room, exhausted from the ordeal with Candor and Amity and their stubborn leaders. I brush the longing thought away.

The serum seeps into my bloodstream, and I can feel it rushing like a roaring river inside of me, sweeping away my doubts. I try to imagine strength building up inside of me, but somehow, it doesn't work.

I chase my remaining doubt away with the wall that I've hidden behind for so long, the protective fort I've lived in. Before Tris, the little Abnegation girl, casually strolled in and destroyed it with the force of an Erudite explosive or ten.

Tris. The only thing that kept me in Dauntless, when I was so close to just leaving. _Is _keeping me in Dauntless, or what little of it remains. I owe her everything. This is for Tris.

With that thought to fortify me, I stride forward with purpose, chin held high, and push open the door to the simulation's terrors. With Tris in mind, her fearless grey-blue eyes piercing and oft at the same time, the living nightmare ahead doesn't seem quite so wild. And so I step into the inky dusk, and watch the door swing slowly shut behind me.

**Should I continue? Yes? No? I seem to have a thing for fear landscapes 0.o Oh well**

**R&R, like always!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Whoo! Seven reviews in like, what, a day? Have I ever mentioned how much I love you guys? Wow. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, or will review, or added this to any kind of favourite or alert! Honestly, you guys are the best.**

**Disclaimer; Unless this is some alternate universe, I don not own the Divergent Trilogy or anything vaguely related to it**

The light floods back in as a swath of sun glaring into my eyes from a clear blue sky. On an ordinary day, I would love to be outside, riding a train, or maybe training, but this is not an ordinary day. I am in my fear landscape.

Metal creaks and bends beneath my shaking legs, and I know what is there. A tall, swaying tower. That I need to jump off of. The jumping doesn't scare me, and never has. It is the height that gets to me and shakes me to my core.

Train tracks snake like trails of snail slime across the concrete landscape, the occasional puff of grey smoke alerting me to our preferred mode of transportation. Towers ascend beneath me, tall and intimidating, but none as impressive as the one I am standing on, unfortunately. The compounds of the factions spread beneath me, five corners of a pentagon, waiting for me, beckoning.

A harsh, rushing wind picks up, tousling my hair, and the terror starts to kick in, sweat beading my brow and blood rushing through my veins, kick-starting any adrenaline I managed to block out earlier. I tell myself, repeat it as a mantra; don't look down. Don't look down.

I look down.

The oxygen leaves me lungs in a whoosh, and I feel like I have just been punched in the stomach, and am struggling to draw air. If only Tris were here. She would find this beautiful; I've seen it in her eyes, how she admires the scenery and lifts her arms slightly, as though about to take flight and fly away from me.

Tris. The thought of her soothes me almost to the point of normality, which is impressive, considering that I am panicking at the edge of an overlarge building, suffering from a savage fear of heights. I see her in my mind's eye. _We have to jump, right? _Yes, we do.

Recalling the memory of Tris with me, lacing her tiny fingers with mine seems to do the trick. Usually, plunging off of a building terrifies me, but I try to channel Tris. Fearless, calm, determined. I take two steps towards the edge before I falter and stumble backwards, clutching a cold metal rail tightly so as to avoid falling off.

I see my knuckles turning white from loss of blood and clutching the rail too tightly, but it is my lifeline. I can't let it go. Heavy breathing fills my ears, and I realize it is my own, as well as the constant terrified pounding of my heart. The beat surges through my ears like a lone drum, calling upon a sacrifice. The sacrifice is me.

The sun now seems slightly malevolent, glaring down at me, and I remember the same kind of harsh light framing Marcus, in my house in Abnegation. _This is for your own good._ Right before he hit me with his stinging whip, leaving fresh lacerations on me that I had to disguise for school, or the teachers would ask. And if they asked, that meant trouble for Marcus, which in turn meant trouble for me.

I sink into a crouch, my back slipping against the polished steel wall, my head between my knees. I can't do this. I can't. I am a coward, unworthy to be in Dauntless. A low moan escapes my lips, the air hissing in between my clenched teeth.

And then I think of Tris again. What would she say? _Come on, Tobias, I'll help you up? _No. If I saw sympathy from her, it would disappoint me, as I am sure sympathy from me would disappoint her. No, she would say something like, _It's just a building, _Four. And pull me off of the ledge before I got the chance to respond.

So I struggle to my feet, my head spinning from the height and the overdose of oxygen I have been receiving from hyperventilating. Lightheaded, I stagger until I am almost at the precipice, swaying over the drop and holding a pole in a crushing grip for support.

I imagine Tris's hand in mine again, calm my breathing, and close my eyes to the sun, the sky, the dead city repopulated by the factionless. Employing a trick she taught me, I slowly count to ten.

Then I jump, imagining Tris pulling me off with her, dragging me away from safety. My heart stops, I swear it truly does.

For a split second, I float, weightless, in the empty air. Then gravity pulls me down, down, down, and I fall spiralling towards the bleak ground. A rush of air surrounds me, pulling at my clothes and hair, and I close my eyes, not really wanting to view the cause of my imminent death, namely, the ground.

I hear nothing, silence eerily blanketing my plunge towards my certain demise. Then a sharp pop, and I stagger onto solid ground, gasping for air and shaking with relief that, once again, I am not dead yet. I stare into black, and wait for the walls to hit me.

**Once again, read (check!) and review! I still haven't found the virtual cookie link, but I'm looking!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Wow. . . it's been a while. . . Sorry everyone, my life is kind of up in the air right now, so there may be an update on Thursday, there may not. I really don't know. Also, I'm going to camp (again) on Friday through Sunday, and this time I'm leading it *grimaces* Wish me luck!**

**Thanks once again to all the fabulour reviewers, alertees, and favouritees on any of my stories; your patiance has been rewarded XD**

**Disclaimer; Still don't own it.**

Something slams into my back, snapping my neck backwards so that my head bangs painfully against the wall. Wait. Wall? And that's when the panic sets in.

It starts slowly, a bubbling twist of fear smouldering in the middle of my chest, but it quickly expands, growing to accommodate my torso and limbs. Numbness spreads icy fingers through me, and I feel the now familiar tug of dread in the pit of my stomach. It starts.

The beautiful blue sky that Tris loves so much has disappeared behind planks of grotty wood, and watery beams of light trickle in between the cracks. It's like looking through the bars of a prison cell, or maybe through the blinds of my house, when Marcus used to beat me. Though, in a way, my house _was _a prison.

Thinking of Marcus reminds me of the numerous occasions he shut me in the closet upstairs. The mindless hours I spent in there, pressed against our winter coats, the heavy cloth muffling my desperate pleas for help.

He would leave me in there, and the first time I thought it was to teach me a lesson. Now, I realize that he probably just forgot I was even in the cupboard. Or that he even had a son at all.

Thinking of the cupboard isn't helping. Now every nerve in my body is screaming to fight, to lash out and destroy my captivity. I am a caged animal, feral and wild, compressed into an impossibly small space.

There is barely enough room for me to stand, so I lean against the wall for support. I don't think I could support my weight if I had to stand alone. I'm trembling so violently, my knees would probably give way beneath me. Shudders run through my body, causing me to shake and convulse in the tiny space, my limbs slamming into the unyielding walls.

Simulation. This is a simulation. The thought worms its way into my terrified skull and lodges itself there, determined not to let go. But pure instinct, the notion that I _should not be in here,_ overpowers rationality. Fear is a powerful weapon.

I kick out, and succeed only in stubbing my toe on the wall, so I slap my sweaty palms against the walls instead. It is no use. I am surrounded on all sides, top and bottom included. Wooden boards squeal and shift, and suddenly, I am scared that the whole rickety structure will collapse, burying me alive.

I can already feel the cool earth against my face, and taste the dirt that will inevitably force its way into my mouth. So I thrash and squirm, hitting every angle of the box I can find, trying to find a weak spot. There is none, of course.

The dread is almost overwhelming now, and for the first time, the thought hits me; I am going to die. Not out in a battle among my comrades, fighting bravely as a Dauntless should. Not peacefully at home, with family surrounding me like an Abnegation.

No, I am going to die in a box. Because of my own fear. Because I am a coward. Was a coward, am a coward, always will be a coward. The thought sickens me, and I wonder how Tris could ever want me.

The memory of Tris sparks a connection in me, and I slump to the floor as my befuddled neurons try to recall the details of Tris's second simulation. Where she broke the glass in the tank she was being drowned in, as easily as if it were newly formed ice.

As I squeeze my limbs to myself, the planks grate above my head, and the area I am sitting in is now barely large enough to hold me. Lovely. Just _fabulous. _An even smaller space for me to die in.

If the glass in Tris's fear landscape was as easy to break as ice, then why shouldn't my confining box be paper? This is only paper that surrounds me, that is trapping the dark in here with me, suffocating me, strangling me with inky tendrils. No. Don't think about that.

Once again, I draw back my arm, feeling the muscles tense as I prepare to punch the wood- no, the paper, above me. I can break it as easily as I can break Eric.

As I lunge forward, and my fist connects with the thin brown woo- _paper,_ one thought flashes across my mind. I am Divergent. And I _will not _be denied. An awful, gut-wrenching, splintering, ripping sound screeches through the silent air, and the walls fall away.

I back away, panting, and trip, stumbling over my own two, usually graceful, feet. I shake as tremors run through me once again, and hope that Tris never has to see me like this, weak and afraid. I give myself five breaths to recover and collect my scattered wits.

Then I stand, straightening my broad shoulders and planting my feet firmly on the ground. So firmly, I doubt that even an earthquake could shake me. Lifting my chin, I wait, staring forward with unseeing eyes into the black and the terrors to come.

**Sorry it's shorter, but I actualy need to go plan that camp. Ta-ta!**


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm so sorry, all, please don't kill me for the late update! I was away at camp which turned out very well, thank you for asking, and then was dead tired. This chapter was written in an hour, which I tried not rush, but really, it was begging to be written.**

**This chapter goes more in-depth with Tobias, and explains (how I think) why he is who he is in Insurgent, and why he made some of the choices he did.I don't want to screw up anyone's interpretation of him, this is just how I see it. Hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer; Haven't we been over this a few times already?**

I dread what I will see when the extinguished lights sputter back on. Usually, this fear is either Marcus or shooting the innocent woman. Ending an innocent life. But somehow, today, I know something is different, pure instinct sending me on edge. Something is wrong.

Not wrong with the simulation; the Erudite would never live that down, the perfectionists. No, something is wrong with _me_. The usual terror that pulses through me is not there, and it has been replaced by a new sensation, one that makes me feel like I can say anything, do anything. It scares me.

I recognise the feeling as power.

I turned down the job of Dauntless leader-in-training because I have seen first-hand what authority does to people. It corrupts them, robs their judgement, and, at the risk of sounding like an Amity, it taints their very souls. It is what has turned Eric into what he is. It is what controls my father.

I never wanted to become a leader. I was always the quiet, unassuming boy from Abnegation, who, by some freak fluke of nature, had four fears and ranked first in initiation. Power scares me, and always has.

I suppose, after confronting Marcus with Tris, the simulation has relegated that fear to a lower priority. And it has instead brought out my fear of power. Minor, but easily twisted into something far more sinister.

It is an odd sensation, to feel invincible and scared at the same time. I suppose that's a bit of an oxymoron, says my befuddled brain. However, to beat this, I must be as fearless as I can, and the least scared as possible. So I lift my chin and stare forwards, like I have so many times before, and clench my fist around the stick in my fist. The stick?

And that's when things start to go horribly, horribly wrong.

As the lights shimmer into existence, my eyes adjust to perceive the scales of Candor set into a tile wall in front of me, startlingly white against coal black. Truth and lies. Good and evil.

I am in one of the Candor's truth chambers, the boxy rooms designed specifically for meditation and reflection. They send wrongdoers down here to repent and confess, and the stark furnishings supposedly help them concentrate. According to the textbooks I have read. Perhaps they just depress them into telling the truth.

A heap of ragged cloth is slumped in the middle of the room, and I squint closer. The dim blue lights floating overhead make it hard to make out any details down here, and the cold air makes me shiver, and clutch at my arms for warmth.

I take a step closer to the bundle, and recoil as quickly as a cat in water. The limp rags are not simply clothes. They are a decrepit human being. _He _is a decrepit human being. _He _is my father.

"Tobias," he croaks, his voice gurgling with what I suspect, with growing horror, is his own blood. I take another step back, disgust filling me, both for who he is, and for what has happened to him.

Much as I may despise his actions, and hate his treatment of me as a child, blood is blood. He is my father. And though I would choose Tris over him easily, I would not, could not leave him here to die. I clutch the stick tighter, and for the first time, I look down. What I see repulses me.

A steady stream of crimson blood is dripping from the end of the metal baton I am gripping, and it is not my blood. The steady trickle drips down, spiralling in an almost graceful dance, to splash onto the ground, staining the Candor's white tile floor palest pink. My knuckles turn whiter, and I slowly raise my gaze. Then I gasp, the sound pulled from my lips and throat.

Marcus's body is a map of bruises. Green, blue, brown, and a myriad of other gruesome colours speckle his body. Lacerations and cuts drip blood onto the floor. Broken bones jut out of his skin, grinning, awful white. I force myself not to vomit. These injuries are something only a sharp, metal rod like the one I am holding could make.

"Why, Tobias, why?" Marcus wheezes, with his dying, rattling voice, stretching out a trembling, emaciated hand. It falls to his side, and he crumples in on himself, his last vestiges of energy spent. My gaze flicks down to the bar in my hand, and realization slowly dawns on me. No. Surely not. . .

"Who did this to you?" I demand. My voice rings out in the empty stone chamber, echoing and bouncing through the space. The voices overlap, so that the room resonates with the disharmony of, "Who? Who did this to you? Did this to you? You! You!"

For a dreadful second, my voice sounds almost like Eric's. Cruel and uncaring. Unfeeling. I shudder, and this time, it has nothing to do with the chilly air.

Marcus sighs, an almost gentle gasp that carries like a breath of wind. "Why? Tobias, my son, why have you done this to me?" The feeling of power has withdrawn from me, leaving only numb shock. I did this. To my own flesh and blood. And the worst part is that I would do it, too.

And then I steel myself. Who knows when this scenario might actually happen? I need to be ready, to protect Tris, to protect Dauntless, to protect myself. I will not strike Marcus again.

And that's when I finally realize the fear that is represented here. I am not afraid of power. I am afraid of the responsibility, the consequences that come with it.

"With great power. . ." Marcus chokes out painfully, "comes great responsibility." His breaths are coming in grating, rattling, choking gasps now, and I know that this simulation will not, _cannot_ last much longer.

I know what I need to do. I need to accept what I've done, which is easier said than carried out. What will Tris say when she finds out that I am a cold-blooded murderer, even if only in a simulation? This is a worse fear than shooting the woman and being beaten by Marcus combined.

But I can beat it. For Tris.

Even if I decide not to tell her.

Marcus heaves a breath, and somehow, I know it's his last. I can feel him departing, somewhere inside of me. A dozen Candor burst into the room, armed. That is the first time I have ever seen a Candor armed. And that is the thing I need to remind me that this is a simulation. A little thing.

They point their guns at me, and gesture for me to raise my hands above my head. This is the moment of truth. Do I accept that I have killed my own father, and defeat this simulation? Or do I repent, and cling to the last shred of humanity I have left?

My arms lift, seemingly of their own accord, but I know better. I know that my subconscious has just let go of another tendril of my fading dignity. But I also know that I have conquered another fear. Maybe next time I come through here, I will be Three. Somehow, Three and Six doesn't sound quite right.

Maybe, a little voice inside my head whispers, maybe, that's because it _isn't _quite right. And a niggling bit of guilt remains in the pit of my stomach; fear is human. I am becoming less and less like the boy that I used to be. This is what war does to you.

I push the thoughts roughly aside as the wails of sirens and the gunfire and the grasps on my wrists fade into nothing. For Tris. This is all for Tris. I pacify myself with that thought for now. But somehow, it still just doesn't seem worth it.

**So, long chapter for you. I hope it didn't drag on. Please leave a review telling me what you think, because this is one of the chapters I'm really not too sure whether it's accurate/well written or not. **

**Cheers!**


	5. Chapter 5

**The penultimate chapter! Sorry about the update, please don't kill me because this is NOT the last chapter! Stay tuned for more, hopefully within the week! Once again, thank you to my lovely reviewers, alertees, and favouritees!**

**Disclaimer; Yeah, my birthday's tomorrow. It would be REALLY NICE if Veronica Roth gave me the rights to Divergent, but we all know that's not going to happen. A girl can dream. . .**

If there is one thing that I am sure of, it is that Tris did _not _come through my fear landscape with me. I left her sprawled on my bed, her pale skin glowing in the moonlight, her long blonde hair fanned across the pillowcase, her breathing peaceful and steady.

So I would greatly appreciate it if someone, _anyone, _could explain to me why her eyes are boring into my own at this very moment. I have not made a mistake. It is human nature to be able to recognize the person you love best at first glance, without fail.

Blue meets blue across an endless sea of black, and Tris seems to be silently crying out to me. Not Tris. Simulation Tris. Her stormy grey-blue eyes are begging me, pleading with me. It takes all I have not to rush over to her, to crush her in my arms and tell her that this is all just a dream. But I know better. If she is here, then this is a trap. So I restrain myself, though with effort.

But pleading? Tris never pleads. Pleading to do what? What have I done now? Was murdering my own father not consequence enough for my actions? Please, not Tris as well, please tell me that I do not have to k- no. I refuse to even consider the possibility.

Halogen lights flicker on around me, sputtering and sizzling as ghosts wreak havoc with the circuitry above. A dim, yellowing light and a low, familiar buzzing dawn, and I know where I am. The training room.

A greasy, insinuating voice slithers to my ears and fills the room, and rage fills me to my core. "Hello, Four." Eric. Never my rival, just am annoying, sadistic brat who always wanted his way, and would do anything to get it. Even throwing someone off the Chasm.

Normally, I'm not scared of him. But normally, he doesn't have Tris's hair clenched in his fist, yanking her head up by the scalp. Normally, he doesn't have a wicked-looking knife pressed to the soft underbelly of her neck, the spot that I know can kill someone with one slice, the spot where I can see the delicate pulse of her blood underneath her fragile, almost transparent skin.

Tris looks calm, composed, even, but I know her better than that. Though she appears relaxed, there is evidently tension in her posture, static force waiting to be unleashed. Her stance is that of a cobra's, the moment before it strikes to deliver the death blow.

What scares me most, though, is the look in her eyes. Tris, unbreakable, unbeatable Tris, is panicking. She meets my gaze across the room defiantly, and presses her lips together so tightly they turn white. She's scared.

"Eric," I finally acknowledge, raising my stare from Tris's to Eric's. His black hole eyes are fathomless, bottomless. They are the eyes of a madman, someone who has lost control and finally been tipped that tiny bit over the edge to insanity. That's all it takes. A small thing. Most likely me or Tris.

"I've been waiting to do this for a long time now, Four," Eric smirks, brandishing the knife. Silvery light gathers and reflects on the blade, reflections twisted and distorted, before the illumination scatters just as quickly, winking out. "I've been waiting to break you."

He's going to kill her. Oh, my God. I start praying, repeating random snippets I have collected over the years inside my head as I struggle to retain my façade of indifference. I'm not religious in the least. I gave up the notion of a god as soon as my mother died. But if anyone can save Tris, well. . .

"And how are you going to do that?" My voice comes out smooth and unbroken, although it catches a bit at the end, with a sob-like jerk. Tris's eyes flash at me, annoyed. Even when she's being held hostage, she finds enough time to mock me on my lack of suitable comebacks.

I try to communicate with her silently. _I'm sorry, Tris, maybe next time you're about to be killed I'll stop and consider my supply of witty retorts. _She glares back angrily. _You should._

It makes me feel like my heart is being shredded into a thousand pieces, to see the fire and passion inside Tris, still to be extinguished and familiar.

Eric smiles, a twisted monstrosity leering at me from between dirty metal rings, gaping, stretched holes, and tobacco-stained, yellowing teeth. "I'm going to kill her, of course."

No. Oh, God, no. Before I can think, before I can even comprehend what I am doing, I lunge towards Eric, pulling a knife from my shirt as I jump. My feet barely leave the ground before Eric simply says, "Hold him."

And just like that, his minions are grabbing at me, restraining me as I thrash and hit and punch and do anything I possibly can to stop what's happening in front of me. Eric laughs, gasping and wheezing for breath with his smoker's rasp.

Then her starts circling Tris, pointing the knife at her throat the whole time, twitching his hand every now and again to make her flinch, or maybe jump. He is playing with her, like a cat taunts a mouse. It makes my vision burn a vivid, flaming red.

"The two little Stiffs," he snorts, hacking up phlegm and spitting it onto the concrete floor, a glob of vile, slippery mucus. "Too bad this story won't have a happy ending." Tris straightens at the mere mention of her old faction.

"_I am not a Stiff_," she hisses between clenched teeth. "I am Dauntless, which is more than I can say for you." That girl has a death wish. Please stop, Tris, _please _stop. For me. She keeps talking. Of course.

"Killing your rival's girlfriend to get at him is weak. Cowardly and weak. And cowardice is not something we tolerate here in Dauntless, is it, Eric? You're nothing but a coward." Tris, please. . .

My vision was swimming and crimson before, but now it has sharpened. Everything but Tris and Eric has blurred out of focus, and I feel myself clicking into what Tris calls 'leader mode,' the cold, analytical part of my brain.

Eric brings back his hand, and faster than movement itself he swings it forward and deals a blow to Tris in the jaw. She stumbles back, tripping on a haphazard mat. "Bitch," Eric growls dangerously. "Coward," she retorts back angrily, and spits a mouthful of blood and saliva in his face.

"That's it," says Eric, pulling Tris up by her long, now matted but once beautiful hair. No! It can't end like this! Not so soon, not now! "Tris!" I cry desperately, the words tearing through my exterior, my icy shell.

I kick out at my captors, but even when adrenaline is fueling me, eight against one is hardly a fair fight. I need to get out. I will not fail my Tris again, I need to GET OUT!

"Tobias," she says, and there are tear tracks glistening down her cheeks and jaw line. Yet her voice is strong and unwavering, like she has accepted her fate. You can't just accept that you are about to die!

"Wait!" I cry into the space. "Wait! Eric. . . take me. Kill the mighty Four." Life without Tris is not a life worth living, and I think she knows it. Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head frantically, wincing as the metal blade digs into her windpipe, denting the pale flesh.

Blood trickles down her neck, staining her black shirt even deeper black. It spills onto her collarbone, making her tattooed ravens look like they are flying through a deadly sunset.

"Oh, I will," Eric reassures me cheerfully, mania shining through. "But I'll kill her first. Just to test you. To see how far I can push you, see how long it takes for you to be falling at my feet."

And with that, he grins, and draws the knife across Tris's neck.

It is like the whole scenario happens in slow motion. Tris's last words to me, "I love you," and her fading life as she crumples to the dusty floor, spurting blood. Eric's grin of satisfaction as he pulls the knife back, rivulets of crimson liquid dripping off of it and spattering the old floor. The red, red blood, flowing everywhere.

She is gone. _She is gone._

I sink into a numbing whirlpool of despair. Tris is dead. Gone. Forever lost to me. My chest constricts, and what little voice I have forces its way out as an inhuman groan, choking and harsh. For the first time in years, I cry. A single tear trickles over my cheek, dripping onto my shirt and onto the floor, speckling the grey concrete so that it appears black. Grey and black, what started this terrible mess in the first place.

A bitter taste penetrates my mouth, and my mind has frozen. There is no room or reason for logical thought right now. I can only sink slowly to my knees on the dusty floor and wish to disappear with her, to just leave the world that has taken so much away from me.

Tris is gone. My only. My other half has been ripped away from me, leaving me with a gaping, empty hole in my heart. Holes like this cannot be filled, no matter how hard people try. They will always be wounds just healing, and then someone will come and rip them open so that they bleed anew.

Trauma is setting in now, shock, and I know that shock is just as deadly as that knife, which is lying onthe ground, covered to the hilt with fresh blood. Tris's blood.

My entire body is numb now, except for my heart. It hammers away in my stiff chest, beating out an irregular, scatterbrained rhythm. I am petrified on the ground, my thoughts deserting me, leaving only the idea that it should have been _me _to die, should have been_ me _to take that knife, and that now Tris is gone forever,

My senses are failing me, and I start to grow cold and shudder from the grief, the aching, growing grief that is rising like a wave and threatening to swallow me whole. Blue eyes slip by in my memory, and a fresh surge of agony overwhelms me.

I look up, and through hazy eyes I can see Tris's slumped body, where Eric left her. The light is gone now from her beautiful eyes, now dull as a winter cloud, and I know that whatever anyone tells me, it will never return.

An absent thought drifts across my mind, which feels like a dream world where nothing is tethered or solid; her eyes should be closed. Tris. What would she say? _Be strong. _But I can't, I can't! Not without her here.

My heart starts racing as the realization dawns on me that _Tris is actually dead. _Out of the corner of my blurry vision, I see Eric approaching me, carrying with him the knife that killed Tris. Killed Tris. I vaguely think that, perhaps he's coming to kill me, too.

And for the first time, I am ready to welcome death with open arms. Anything is better, _must _be better, than this living torture. Anything is better than living without my Tris, Beatrice. Six. _Tris._

The last thing I see as my vision dims and I black out is Eric, swinging the knife down above me, plunging it towards my heart.

**I bet you all forgot this was a simulation, didn't you? Reviews are cheerfully accepted, and they motivate me to update faster *hint hint* They are also a fabulous fourteenth birthday present!**

**Has anyone else noticed that my chapters seem to be getting longer and longer, or is it just me?**


	6. Chapter 6

_**IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE AT THE END!**_

**I'M SO SORRY PLEASE FORGIVE ME! I BEG YOU! *cringes and peeks out from between fingers. Seriously guys, I know, I suck. But my computer crashed, and then my parents decided it "wasn't important enough to be fixed right away" (my house is messed up). So for anyone who PMed me, I was responding on my kobo, which let me do everything EXCEPT update. Ugh.**

**So, here is the (hopefully) much-anticipated final chapter! Please enjoy!**

**Disclaimer; If I disclaim this, I also disclaim any mistakes :)**

A glint of light on moving metal is all I can register before there is a sudden, eerie silence. Blank darkness surrounds me, embraces me as my mother would have when she was still with us, but in a ghost-like, more sinister fashion. A feeling of weightlessness sweeps through me, and I am floating, floating in the dark, floating in the silence.

How I am even able to register this much is beyond me, and how my befuddled brain sends signals while I am so woefully incapacitated is a mystery. Tris is dead. And what is worse, Eric took her, and then came upon me with the same knife he used to kill me the first time.

And now my heart is beating a violent tattoo, too fast to be anywhere near normal, too irregular to be anywhere near healthy. My skin is covered with a veil of cold sweat, a dark sheen being cast on it by some unknown source of illumination. And I am shaking so badly, I am surprised my bones do not pop out of their sockets.

Of course, by this point I wouldn't have noticed, even if they had.

A thought spins around and around my head, whirling faster and faster with each passing second; _let it end, let it end, let it end. . . _The grief and anger and fear that rumble inside of me have built up to one huge storm cloud, that small point that can finally tip someone over the edge.

Everything that has built up inside of me comes out in one long, pent- up, drawn-out, inhuman scream. The wail echoes across the blackness, starting as a grating moan, and building to a full-blown shriek, ripping through the night until I run out of breath, panting. . .

. . .And find myself lying, sprawled out on the fear landscape floor, with red words blinking on the screens. _Fear overload. The system has shut down._ I stare at the word _error_ stupidly, blankly, until a hand touches my shoulder lightly from behind. I whip around to strike when a small, cool hand catches my wrist.

"_Tobias!"_

And then slender arms wind around my waist, and I am still sitting on the ground, silent, until I realize that it is Tris holding me, and that all that I just went through was a simulation. A _simulation. _My own arms find their way around Tris's neck and across her shoulders, and for a long time we simply sit there, and she holds me until I am calm again.

"Tobias," she says again, gently. "You're crying." Tris's thumb slides across my cheek and along my jaw, and with the tips of my fingers I touch my face, confusedly. They come away wet, and I feel the taste of bitter salt permeating my mouth.

God. I never wanted Tris to see me like this, weak and afraid. It seems as though the world is against me, trying to push us apart. I can't afford to let her see what the fear landscape has revealed, what a monster I am. I can't let her see that _she _is one of my four weaknesses, and give life another reason to try and split us away from each other.

I push myself into a sitting position, and she leans against me, warm against my cool skin, her t-shirt brushing my fingers in a caress. "Why?" she asks bluntly. I was not expecting sympathy, nor do I want it. So I reply just as directly and honestly; "To become stronger."

She sighs, a long exhaling of air flooding from her lungs and between her lips. "Is this. . ." "About Marcus?" I finish. "Yes." Tris looks up at me sadly, her great blue-grey eyes mournful, but not pitying. Never pitying. "The same?"

And that's when I tell my first lie to the only one I have ever truly trusted. "Yes."

**MY, I write dark fanfiction!**

**So, I was going to start another story, but I don't know which one to do. Here are the options, please tell me which you prefer via REVIEW.**

**1. A Divergent SYOC prior (ahaha Prior! Get it? No. .? Oh well.) to the main story**

**2. A songfic to Ed Sheeran's The A Team for The Infernal Devices (Tessa/Jem!)**

**3. A long-term story that I don't know about a plot but will have Jace/Clary for The Mortal Instruments**

**4. A series of oneshots for Pokemon (so sue me, ok?) starring the lovely, lovely N and Touko/White/Hilda (ew)/Whitlea (they're all the same person)**

**I have also recieved an offer from Ashletta Everdeen to co-write a story in which the Erudite are Divergent-seeking vampires o.O OR I could just continue uploading my drabble-y things for Divergent. I also take requests, but only if I like the idea ;)**

**As always, R&R, and yes, SilverEyeShinobi, there will be Dauntless ice-cream cake for anyone who reviews XD**


	7. Important notice

**Guys, this is really important.** And I'm actually dead serious. This isn't like, "Oh my Amity. I lost my book!" serious. This is why I haven't been posting lately.

Remember my camp that I go to every summer? The one that makes me really happy and then I come back all excited and motivated to write and cheerful?

It's shutting down.

Yeah.

Please, everyone, whether you're new to my stories and work, or whether you're a dedicated follower or favouritee, I'm asking for your help now. Well, no. Scratch that, I'm _begging_ for your help. This camp means a lot to me, and to a lot of other people that I know. I can't imagine my world without it, so I'll make this really simple.

We have a Facebook page. _**Save Camp Artaban. **_If you guys could go on Facebook, search us up, and click _like, _that would be more than I could ask for. If we can garner support, maybe it will show the people who cut our funding that this isn't just a summer camp, it's a second home. If you guys, any of you, want to find out more, follow our Facebook updates or even message me. I'd be more than happy to fill you in.

And if anyone out there has any money to spare, that would be the best thing ever to happen to me.

This is EmergentWriter, signing off. I don't know when I'll be on next, but thank you all for sticking with me

And diehard followers? I keep my word. I don't abandon stories. I just won't be on very often, if at all, until this is resolved.

Please, guys. And girls. And anyone else out there. _**Help.**_


End file.
